


grace is just the measure of fall

by sonofahurricane



Category: White Collar
Genre: AU, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, because consequences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-17
Updated: 2013-07-17
Packaged: 2017-12-20 10:44:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/886332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonofahurricane/pseuds/sonofahurricane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU of 2x09, Point Blank. Neal Caffrey was no superhero, and no one knew that better than Diana Barrigan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	grace is just the measure of fall

**Author's Note:**

> [magistrate](http://archiveofourown.org/users/magistrate) made the suggestion "Someone should write some crackfic where he attempts to swing through the window and the banner rips clean away from the wall and pumps him right on top of the fountain in the courtyard and he breaks a not inconsiderable number of bones." This isn't exactly crackfic, but I did my best.

Diana wasn’t sure what it was about Neal Caffrey that made this semi-heroic stunt he was about to pull seem plausible, against the logic of the normal world that included things like gravity and weak fabric structures. Diana was not, had never been, a fairy tale kind of girl, but just for a moment, as he launched himself into the air and let momentum take over, she wanted to believe. Mostly because the alternative was a mess for everyone involved. 

But Neal was a criminal, not a superhero, and despite what he believed about himself, he had to follow the rules just like everyone else. Peter couldn’t intervene on his behalf here, couldn’t protect him from the laws of nature; no one could. So of course the fabric ripped, slowly at first, threads straining to keep it together, Neal flailing in midair to keep himself on course, and then it rapidly all fell apart. The banner split and Neal’s grip slipped as Diana raced toward the balcony from which Neal had leapt, just in time to see the moment of impact. Neal dropped into the fountain, smashing into it shins first, cracking the rock and flailing with one arm—had he hit the other?—before falling backwards onto the gravel garden that surrounded it. Diana didn’t hear anything, but from the recoil of the people standing around the fountain and her own knowledge of physics, things probably didn’t end well for Neal.

She cursed under her breath and beat a fast retreat. No point in updating Peter right now, he had other things to worry about, and she had other phone calls to make. Or have others make, as she pushed through people and handed one of them her phone. “ _You_ ,” she said fiercely, pressing it into his hands. The man, dressed in a dark blue suit with no tie, fumbled for a moment with the phone, eyes wide. “Call 9-1-1, tell them we’re going to need an ambulance here _right_ away, that we’ve got a man with multiple fractures, possibly spine injuries. _Do it_.” The man took a second to just stare at her, and then frantically dialed the number. That was one problem down. 

“Now!” she raised her voice to make sure she would be heard. “I need the rest of you to clear out of here, unless any of you have medical training?” No one raised their hands. Of course. Apparently all the doctors in the house had conveniently left, or weren’t being invited to functions at the Russian Heritage Museum this season. “Then step away, and I need you and you,” she indicted two burly men towards the back, “to clear a way for the emergency personnel to get through when they get here. Are we clear?” 

People started to move, and Diana let out a breath. That was one step down. She hoped she hadn’t wasted too much time as she turned on Neal, and fought to keep a straight face. Caffrey was laying face up, pale and gasping for breath, one hand scrabbling desperately for a hold on the gravel while the other arm lay out at an inhuman (and inhumane) angle, shattered, blood pooling underneath it from a laceration where he had presumably hit it against the fountain. Well, potentially shattered; Diana didn’t have x-ray vision, so who knows what was going on under the skin, but the blood, like the matching lacerations and yes, bits of bone sticking up out from them on Neal’s legs, gave her a pretty damn good idea. This was definitely Not Good. 

There was actually quite a bit of blood, and Diana wasn’t sure yet where it was coming from; she had some obvious choices, but it was the less-than-obvious places that concerned her. She needed a first aid kit as soon as possible—and thank god someone had alerted a museum employee, because just in the nick of time, a sweaty assistant sprinted into the courtyard, a large mesh first aid kit in his trembling hands. He took one look at Neal—or, more likely, took a glance at the pools of blood now gathering underneath Neal—and squeaked, dropping the kit onto the ground and bolting. Well, the less crowded the space got, the better, although Diana would have appreciated someone to keep Neal’s head steady. She’d just have to hope that Neal _listened_ to someone for once. 

Given the series of events that had gotten them into this situation in the first place, though, she wasn’t going to put any money on it. 

Digging the gloves out of the kit and putting them on, Diana knelt next to Neal, trying her best not to be directly in a puddle of his blood. There weren’t many things about the job that made her queasy, but thinking about that image too long, she had a feeling, would just slow her down in this time-sensitive process. Neal was still staring straight up, eyes glassed over, and when Diana hovered over his face, he didn’t focus on her. “Neal,” she said, and he blinked a few times and then looked at her, exhaling audibly. Well, that took care of airway and breathing for her. 

“...Diana,” he croaked slowly. “I- did Peter get Fowler?” 

Well, he remembered her name, and what they were there for. That was a start, and didn’t seem to suggest concussion, but who knew, at this rate. “Peter’s trying to get into the room right now,” she said. “Look, I need you to give me permission to touch you because if I don’t have that permission and I can’t help you, we have to wait for the ambulance and I don’t know how long that’s going to take.” She didn’t know if that counted as respecting the Good Samaritan laws or not, but she didn’t have the time to bullshit it out of him. 

“I didn’t-yes, um, go ahead? I don’t...” Neal licked his lips as Diana dove back into the first aid kit and gathered up as many sterile pads as she could conceivably hold, putting them in a neat pile out of harm’s (blood’s) way and ripping into the first one to attend to the damage done to his arm. 

“You know your name?” she asked. He didn’t respond, and she glanced back up at him, only to find him staring back into space again. His grip on the rocks he held in his good hand might have been loosening, or that might have been her imagination, but she wasn’t going to risk it. She set to work, pressing a sterile pad down against the injury. That got his attention, as he gasped and turned his head to look at her. “Lie back and tell me your name,” she snapped at him before he could protest that she was treating him unfairly.

“Neal Caffrey,” he breathed as he lay back down and stared back up at the sky. Diana lay another sterile pad on top of the one underneath her fingers and leaned into it. Emergency services was taking its own sweet time in getting there. Pretty soon she was going to have to start looking for something to splint with. The bleeding on his arm stopped with a third sterile pad, and she shifted her focus to his legs. On top of his name, Neal knew the date, and the fact that they were at the Russian Heritage Museum. 

“Can you tell me what happened?” Diana asked, laying what she hoped would be the last gauze on top of Neal’s leg and leaning into it. He grunted softly, closing his eyes. “Neal?”

“I’m listening, Diana. I couldn’t pass out if I wanted to at this point.” He opened his eyes to let her know he was conscious.

“We both know that’s not true. Answer the question. Can you tell me what happened?”

Neal exhaled heavily, readjusting his grip on the handful of rocks he held. Diana wasn’t about to take that away from him, even if she privately questioned how helpful squeezing rocks would actually be in this situation. It would be better if the rocks were a hand, but both of hers were occupied, and Peter was busy at the moment. “I don’t know,” he said simply, staring back up at the sky, and Diana glanced up from her work into his face, her pulse picking up. 

“Neal?” she asked. “I’m being serious.”

He sighed again, and closed his eyes. “I jumped off the balcony up there and the banner I was holding on to ripped,” he said. Diana nodded slowly, wrapping the gauze bandage to hold it down to his leg so she could focus on other things. Like checking his skull. Diana lifted her gloved hand and carefully knelt next to Neal, checking to make sure no fluid was gathering in his ears, and glancing at his head to look for any depressions. “Diana,” Neal said, and his voice sounded on the verge of panic. “Where’s Peter?” Diana glanced up at him, raised her head to put it into his line of sight. 

“He was trying to get into the room, to get to Fowler,” she told him calmly, taking the opportunity to look around his eyes. No bruising, but that would be a late-stage sign anyway. The repeated questions weren’t a great sign, and she leaned back over him as he processed the information.

“Fowler,” Neal repeated, and Diana gently brushed through his hair, feeling for fractures in the skull. “Diana, Fowler killed Kate.” 

Diana leaned back on her heels with a sigh. “Maybe,” she said. “We don’t know that yet.”

“No, Diana, you don’t—Fowler _killed_ Kate. Where’s Peter? He’s dangerous, Diana, Fowler’s dangerous.” 

“Peter can handle himself, Neal. You need to lay back. Peter’s fine, and we’ll catch Fowler.” She took a minute to listen for the shouts of “FBI, HANDS UP!” from upstairs, but they were too far away to hear anything. Peter would get him, though. She started to unbutton Neal’s shirt, because although his skull felt fine, who knew how many ribs were cracked. Neal’s breathing for the most part sounded normal, if a little fast; she didn’t think he had lost enough blood to go into class II shock, but it was definitely the shock that was talking. “Where the _hell_ is the ambulance,” she muttered, finding Neal’s ribs under his skin and lightly feeling for any fractures. 

“Diana,” Neal said distantly, like the fight had gone out of him. There was bruising on his left side, but it didn’t feel to Diana like anything was broken. “Diana, I have to tell you something.” 

“What is it, Neal?” Diana tried not to sound irritated. For all that he very well could have fallen to his death, he was incredibly chatty. As grateful as Diana was, knowing she didn’t have to go back and check his airway and breathing, it would have been a lot more helpful to her if he would just lie back and breathe.

“I... I told Alex to break into your apartment. To take the music box.” Diana didn’t look at him. Of course he had. They had figured that one out almost as soon as it had been taken. If this was Neal Caffrey’s dying confession to her, it wasn’t very good. “Diana I’m sorry. I had to get to-”

“Neal, I need you to lay back and be quiet,” she snapped at him. “And I’d save your confessions, because you’re going to need some kind of leverage after this.” That was harsher than she meant it, but going home felt vulnerable now after it’d been broken into, and Diana had stayed up later than she liked to admit, watching Christie sleep but unable to relax enough herself. Neal exhaled heavily, winced like it might have hurt him, and the flesh over his ribs rippled a little bit with the effort. Nothing extremely out of place, though. Miraculously, nothing was broken, at least from what she had felt. 

“I’m sorry,” Neal apologized again, but Diana just turned away and went back to the first-aid kit. Of course they didn’t have any splints in there; that would just be too convenient on a day like today. Diana swiped at her forehead with the back of her gloved hand, looking around the courtyard for something she could use, when-

“This way! This way!” She almost sagged with relief as one of the burly men in dark suits she had directed earlier come through the doorway, leading a team of EMTs behind him. She leaned to look into Neal’s face, grinning at him.   
“Here comes the cavalry!” Neal just looked up at her dully, and tried to smile. Diana climbed to her feet and peeled off the bloody gloves, turning them inside out and smoothing her shirt. One of the technicians approached her while the rest of the team swarmed Neal. 

“What’ve we got?”

“He fell from that balcony, hit the fountain on the way down,” Diana explained. “Probably a neck/spinal injury, so I tried not to move him, although he has lifted his head once or twice while I was working on him. He also fractured his left wrist and both shins, the right ankle didn’t look great but wasn’t open like the other three, and he has some serious bruising on his left side. He was conscious and alert the entire time, but getting agitated so we’re probably in class I shock right now, moving into class II. No skull fracture that I could feel, and no rib fractures, but I’m not an expert.” 

The EMT grinned at her. “You sure sound like one!” he offered, and Diana didn’t even have time to roll her eyes before he too went to work, the team strapping Neal down onto the spine board. 

“Diana!” She turned around to see Peter, coming down the stairs with Fowler in handcuffs. Diana grinned to herself. She knew Peter could get him. Fowler looked a little worse for the wear—some injury on his forehead had been bandaged up with what looked like a bed sheet—and Peter’s hair was a wild mess, but he looked for the most part unharmed. 

“What the hell happened here?” Peter slowed, still gripping Fowler’s arm, his eyes wide at the mass of bodies. Diana quickly wiped the grin off her face and walked closer to Peter, the bloody gloves still balled up in her fist. 

“Neal fell from a balcony, sir,” she said, taking Fowler’s other arm in her free hand. “He’s broken a couple bones and they suspect a spine injury, but he was moving his neck around while I was treating him.” The color drained from Peter’s face, and he stumbled a little bit. “Peter,” Diana said loudly, and he looked at her, eyes round, mouth open. “He’s going to be okay. He was talking to me the entire time. He’ll probably have half the ambulance charmed by the time they get to the hospital.” Peter’s mouth closed, and he nodded, but something told Diana he still wasn’t fully convinced—the lines in his forehead, or the way he kept glancing over to Neal, or how round his eyes got when they caught sight of the pool of blood where Neal had been laying. 

She sighed, gripped Fowler’s arm a little more firmly, and jerked her head towards the group of EMTs moving Neal out of the courtyard. “Go with him. I’ll take Fowler’s testimony at the office and report back to you at the hospital. I have a feeling Neal will want the information too, given how much he’s risked to be here.” Peter glanced up at her, and she nodded at him. 

“Thank you, Diana,” he said, and touched her shoulder before going after Neal and the rest of the emergency crew. Diana sighed, and began to walk Fowler out to the car.

Hours later, Diana had the beginnings of a headache, a large amount of testimony from Fowler, and a desire to skip out on briefing Peter that was almost greater than her deep respect for the senior agent, but she pulled up to the hospital anyway, popping two acetaminophen before exiting her car and walking into the lobby. For all that Christie was a doctor, Diana was never a huge fan of hospitals; the way they smelled like disinfectant, like they were covering something up, and the way the lights bounced off the tiles and cast short shadows wherever you stood struck her as creepy. Thankfully when you were an FBI agent, the people manning the halls respected you for the most part, and Diana was quickly escorted to Neal’s room, where she found Peter pacing outside. 

He looked the same as Diana’s headache felt. His mussed hair was even more so, like he’d been running his fingers through it, and when he looked at Diana it seemed to take him a moment to register who she was. Diana briefly wondered if he _had_ hit his head in the tussle with Fowler, but that thought was quickly forgotten as Peter broke into a grin. “You came!” he said, crossing the hall to meet her halfway. Diana handed over the file and walked with him as he opened it.

“I almost didn’t, but I thought you should get this as soon as possible.” She paused in front of Neal’s hospital room, jerking her head to indicate him. “How is he?”

Peter glanced up at her. “Asleep,” he said, going back to the file. “Fractured wrist, both tibias, ankle, and three vertebrae, but no spinal damage and no skull fracture. Ribs are bruised to hell, but only one or two of them are cracked. The doctors told me it could have been a lot worse than it was, and that what you did on the scene probably helped save him.” Diana nodded, eyes lingering on the door, her stomach clenched and knotted. 

“Peter...” she started, and he looked up from the file at her, then closed the file. 

“What?” he asked, then gestured for her to follow him a little further down the hallway, away from the door. Diana inhaled deeply, knowing there was no way this was going to come out except all at once.

“When I was treating Neal, those first few minutes... he confessed to having Alex break into my apartment to steal the music box.” She looked at Peter, who sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “And he went off-anklet. And he had a _gun_ , which he somehow acquired. They took it off the scene as evidence after we’d left. None of this looks good for him.” 

“I know, I know!” Peter sighed. “He hasn’t been right since Kate...”

“Sir, I don’t know if the FBI is going to buy that. He’s a huge risk and this is not the first time he’s worked behind your back. And you have your own career to consider.” Peter looked at Diana like he couldn’t believe what she was saying. She couldn’t exactly believe it either. “What I’m trying to say is, Peter, I’d rather lose Caffrey as a CI than have you go down on his behalf after all he’s done.” 

Peter pressed his lips together tightly, and Diana wondered for a moment what had compelled her to cross that line. It wasn’t that she _wanted_ Neal back in prison—he was a huge asset to them, and she knew that just as well as Peter did. But watching Peter’s face as it dwelled on the pools of blood Neal had left behind, knowing how much he actually _cared_ about Caffrey, and how much he had already risked for him... “Thank you for the consideration, Diana,” Peter said, and Diana knew she had gone too far. “You can go home now.” 

She nodded. “Yes sir,” she said, and headed back the way she had come, except she couldn’t keep silent forever. She turned around and Peter was back to reading the file, rubbing his forehead with his fingers, like he too was fighting off a headache--a headache the size of Neal Caffrey’s grin, no doubt. “Sir?” she asked, and he looked up at her, his face a map of worry lines. “Tell Neal to feel better. Good night,” she said, and the lines softened and he smiled at her. 

“Good night, Diana. Thank you.” 

Diana nodded, smiling, and began the long walk back to her car.


End file.
